


Simple Humanity

by Diswrit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27638821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diswrit/pseuds/Diswrit
Summary: AU: Yelloweyes never existed, and nothing he did ever happened, though Dean has still been to hell. - Dean needs some alone time after a breakup, and a family hunting trip seems like the perfect thing. Deciding to stay after everyone else has left, he encounters a woman in the woods. What's the worst that could happen? After all, she's only human.





	1. The Woman in the Woods

He was running through the forest, branches dragging at the bare skin of his torso, the frigid winter air stinging his skin and wounds as he raced away from the small wooden cabin as quickly as he possibly could with the condition his feet were in. He stumbled, groaning in pain as he felt something grinding in his foot, his gasping breath too loud in the otherwise silent, dark night. In places, the moon's light shone dimly through the clouds and bare branches of the trees, and these patches provided his only glimpses of what he was running towards. He didn't care where he ended up, only that he was getting away. He saw a light ahead, and ran toward it, waving his arms and yelling for help, hope kindled in him for the first time. It was a flashlight, and he couldn't see who was behind it. He ran to them, collapsing a few feet away and holding his hand out to block the light, painfully bright to him after so long in the dark.

"Help me... help," he gasped, ignoring the pain in the cuts to his abdomen as he fought to catch his breath. "There's a woman- back there... she tried to-"

He cut off as his eyes adjusted to the brightness and he saw the pale face, thick ebony hair, and eyes of a brown so dark that they were black in the night. He scrambled back, dirt and sticks and leaves and stones reopening the cuts all over his body.

"Stay away from me!" he screamed, trying to get to his feet. She approached him, and he turned, running frantically for a few feet, only to run smack into the truck of a thick tree. His vision blurred, and as he fell to the ground, the last thing he saw was his tormentor, calmly walking toward him.

**2 Weeks Earlier**

It was after the last hunt of the season. Everyone else had already headed back home, Sam, John, Mary and Uncle Bobby. Dean was the only one who stayed behind for a few days of solitude in the Alaskan wilderness. Everyone in his family knew that he just needed some time alone after the thing with Miranda. The relationship had ended on the worst of notes. Dean could say that his time with her had literally been hell.

He walked through the woods that his family had been coming to for recreational hunting for five years now. He knew them almost as well as his backyard, though that knowledge had been hard to gain, and he'd gotten lost three times before he learned his way around them. He took his rifle with him because he knew there were things in the woods that would love to eat him for dinner. His walk was meant to clear his head. The air out here was clean, though cold enough that breathing it hurt a bit.

The last thing he expected to hear out here was the unmistakable sound of an axe hitting on wood. It piqued his curiosity. Hunting season was almost over, and only idiots like he and his family would ever be out this time of year.

He headed toward it, and before long, saw a figure through the trees. It was a woman, splitting wood outside of a log cabin that he was certain had not been there last year.

"Want a hand?" he asked when he was close enough.

He expected to startle her, but the woman brought the axe down one last time before she turned to regard him, her movements slow and deliberate as if she had been expecting company. He shuddered involuntarily when he met her eyes. They were wide, and dark, dark brown, but there was something off about them. A kind of coldness. Calculating. It reminded him of a wolf, sizing up it's intended prey.

"And you would be?" she asked, picking the axe back up and nudging the split wood off the chopping block.

"Dean. Winchester," he said. "I'm a regular around these parts."

"Hunting?" she asked, nodding towards the rifle.

"When the season's right. Now, just walking," he said. "And you are?"

A smile played at the corners of her lips. "Clara."

"You haven't got a last name?" Dean asked.

"Maybe I do, and maybe I don't," she said playfully.

"You here with company?" Dean asked.

"Why do you care?" she asked.

"Just curious," he said.

"Hmm. You know that old saying? The one everyone tells their children. 'Don't talk to strangers'. Why should I tell you anything about myself? I've only just met you, after all. You could be someone that a girl wouldn't want to run into alone in the woods."

"I could be. But something tells me that you wouldn't mind if I were," he said, recognizing the careless tone in her voice.

"Perceptive. I like." She walked up to him, and offered him the axe. "I actually do have better things to do than split wood all afternoon. If you don't mind. It would be a great help."

"My pleasure."

He took it, and she met his eyes for a moment, a kind of dark playfulness showing through the dark orbs before she turned and walked into the cabin.

Dean took her place at the chopping block and began splitting the wood. An uneasy feeling had taken hold in his gut, though what from precisely, he couldn't tell.

 _Her eyes, maybe,_ he told himself. They were so dark that they almost looked black. Too close to Miranda's demonic eyes. He dismissed the feeling.

About an hour passed before he split all the wood. He could feel eyes watching him from the cabin doorway the whole time, but he ignored them. He took his jacket off halfway through, then his flannel shirt, leaving him in just a grey t-shirt, despite the nip in the air.

She walked over to him when she was done, no smile on her lips, but something close to one in her eyes. Her eyes, he noticed, were very expressive.

"Well, that took you half as long as it would have taken me. You have my gratitude. What can I do for you in return?" she asked.

He shrugged, taken a little aback by such a high-class thank you.

"It's fine. It's nothing," he said.

"It looked so. At least come in for a drink," she said.

He looked around, seeing that it was getting dark. If he didn't head back now, he might be stuck here for the night. Which might not be a bad thing. But even his hookups usually had a bit more of an introductory phase than this.

"Nah, I should be heading back," he said.

"No please, I insist," she pressed.

He couldn't keep his eyes from roaming over her in the fading light.

"Well, if you insist," he caved.

She smiled. "I do."

He followed her into the cabin and was immediately hit by the warmth from a fire going strong in the hearth. A heavy scent of pine filled the air. The cabin was comprised of one room with a cabinet against one wall and a bed in the corner. There was a large rug in the center of the room and table with one chair tucked into the corner opposite the bed. The walls were covered in paintings, and he examined these while she poured two drinks. They were all done in dark red, and appeared to be splatters and drips.

"Do you like them?" she asked, walking up to him and handing him his drink. He took a sip, nodding, though he actually found them a bit disturbing. The color of the paint looked like dried blood.

"I did them myself," she said, taking a drink out of her own glass. "So tell me Mr. Winchester-"

"Dean," he corrected.

There was a hint of annoyance in her eyes, but it was quickly covered with a smile. "Dean. What are you doing out here, by yourself? And so close to the end of hunting season?" she asked.

"I came here with my family. It was less for hunting and more just to get away," he said.

"Oh. Your family, are they close by?" she asked.

"What? No, they're all gone. They left about a day ago," he said.

"Hmm. So why are you still here?" she asked.

"I wanted some alone time."

"Well, if you can't get it out here, then where can you get it?" she asked, chuckling softly. He joined her, nodding in agreement.

"So what about you?" he asked. "Why are you out here alone?"

"Same as you. Solitude," she said. There was a bitter edge to her voice.

"You didn't come with family?" he asked.

"I don't have any family," she said, spitting the word out vehemently. "They all betrayed me."

He was starting to feel a bit lightheaded, so he went over to the table, and sat down heavily in the chair.

"I'm sorry," he said, struggling to stay focused on their conversation.

She smiled as she walked up to him. "It's alright. How does your head feel?" she asked.

"What?" he asked.

"Your head. How does it feel?" she asked.

In the back of his mind, something was still functioning properly, and told him that something was wrong. But at that moment, a sharp pain flared in his head, and he groaned, dropping the glass to hold his head. She tsked, and picked it up, placing it on the table as she went over to the cabinet and pulled out a rag.

"Really now, you should be more careful," she berated him.

He stood abruptly, almost knocking the chair over, the pain in his head flaring, but he knew what this was, because he'd been drugged before.

"I have to go," he growled. He took a step toward the door, but stumbled over something and fell to the ground. He rolled over, realizing that she had tripped him. She loomed over him, smiling. The fire cast her shadow over him, heavy and dark.

"You're not going anywhere. The fun's only just getting started," she said.

He barely heard her over the pounding ache in his head. He tried to move, and found he couldn't, the word paralytic crawling through his mind. She moved him to the side, and rolled back the rug, revealing a trapdoor. She opened it, and Dean was able to make out a short, descending flight of stairs, maybe ten steps. She dragged him over, and pushed him down unceremoniously. He tumbled to the bottom, hitting his head along the way, the pain vanishing as darkness claimed him.


	2. Blood and Canvas

It was pitch black and freezing cold when Dean awoke.

His head throbbed, less from the drugs and more from having hit it on the stairs. He was sore in a few other places too, probably also from the fall. He tried to move, but found that he couldn't. As far as he could tell in the dark he was lying spread eagle. There was pressure on his wrists, ankles and neck. He'd been strapped to something. His shirt was gone, as were his shoes, socks and pants, leaving him in his boxer shorts.

"Aw crap," he groaned, mind racing.

 _It's_ ok, he thought to himself, forcing his breathing to steady. _It's gonna be ok. Whatever this is, you'll get through it. You always do._

His first thoughts were plans of escape, but he didn't even know what this was yet. He was going to need to improvise, plan on the fly.

He heard footsteps above. He quickly decided that it would be better to be unconscious at the moment, and closed his eyes, letting his head fall to the side limply. He heard the trapdoor open, and felt a blast of warm air coming down into the room. He heard footsteps on the stairs, and a chuckle that he assumed was Clara's.

Suddenly he was wet, and he jerked, the cold hitting him an instant later, leaving him gasping, spluttering, and spitting out water.

"There we go. How did you sleep?" Clara asked. She set down a pail that Dean deduced she had used to throw water onto him. She circled him, holding a lantern over her head. She pulled out a thin stick, igniting it and going around, lighting about ten other lanterns set up around the room, illuminating it quite effectively, before turning to Dean.

"How did you sleep?" she repeated.

"Seeing as I was drugged, thrown down some stairs and knocked out? Great," he said sarcastically. "What the hell?"

"Put a smile on that pretty face of yours while you still can," Clara said. "We're going to have some fun."

"Kinky. I like it," Dean said, though he had an awful feeling that whatever she was talking about would not actually be fun for him. "You could have just asked though."

He couldn't see her, but he heard a rattle that sounded like silverware from behind him.

"You would have allowed me to bind you in my basement?" she asked, sounding amused.

"Depends on how nicely you asked," he said.

"Ah. See that's the thing." She walked around, inspecting a razor blade. "I'm not good at asking nicely."

She rolled her own sleeves up, revealing three scars across her arm close to her elbow. Both of her arms had identical sets of scars. She hummed happily as she walked over to his left arm, smiling and tilting her head, running her fingers lightly over the spot on his arm that just about corresponded with her scars.

"Clara," he said warningly.

"Yes?" she asked in a pleasant tone, wiping the razor on her shirt.

"You can stop right now before this goes too far," he said.

"Oh that's sweet. But I'm afraid that if you were to get out, you would already have more than enough to charge me with kidnapping, assault, and sexual harassment," she said. She placed the sharp tip of the razor on his arm, and pressed down. He bit back a groan. The cut was anything but quick. She dug the blade deep into his arm, with a careful, practiced precision, and slowly dragged it toward her. Dean tried not to make much noise, sensing that she would enjoy it, but he could feel every tiny half-inch of skin and flesh separating. His breaths were loud and sharp as blood welled up in the deep gash that was left when she finally pulled the blade out.

It wasn't a horrible, unbearable pain. Dean had been subjected to far worse. There was something new about it though. Dean knew how to handle being shot. He knew how to handle digging out the bullet and fixing up the wound it left behind. He knew how to treat himself if a dog or a wolf bit him.

An insane woman in the middle of the woods tying him up and cutting into him with razor blades was completely uncharted territory.

 _Not really though,_ he thought with a shudder. Hell was a lot like this. Sometimes, at least.

"Perfect. We have a bleeder!" Clara cackled gleefully.

She grabbed a canvas from a table, and wiped some of the blood from of his arm with two of her fingers. She streaked it onto the canvas, and Dean realized that was the art that he'd seen up in the log cabin.

"You're sick," he said.

She looked back at him and smiled, looking like she was quite enjoying herself.

"Oh darling, you haven't seen a thing yet," she said.

She continued dipping her fingers into his blood and wiping them on her canvas, until the bleeding slowed, and finally stopped.

"Now back to the fun part," she said, putting down the canvas and picking her razor back up. He swallowed, steeling himself as she started again about a half inch away from the first cut she'd made, repeating the slow process. This time though, rather than picking her canvas up again, she put the empty water pail under his arm, catching the blood that dripped down. She did this again and again until the cuts on his arms matched hers perfectly. Clara was humming at this point, a sharp, upbeat melody. She was obviously enjoying herself very much. Only then, lying almost entirely naked under a razor blade wielded by a woman who lived in the forest completely alone, his blood dripping into pots and pails as she hummed happily, did he realize the true gravity of his situation. This was a human. It was a sick human. Not a monster or a demon, something Dean was used to killing. Just a woman with a twisted idea of a good time.

"You haven't made a sound this whole time," she said, sounding disappointed.

"Yeah, well, I've had worse," he said.

"That's regrettable. Did you know that you're the first fully grown male of the human species that I've tried this on?" she asked.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"Oh yes. I've done deer, a wolf, a few little children and three or four women, but you're the first man," she said. "I thought you were bound to be tougher than any of them."

"Little children?" he demanded, feeling sick.

"Oh yes. There was this one little girl, her name was Angela. She had the prettiest blonde hair." Clara smiled. "She was a squealer that one."

"You're sick. You're sick, you know that?!" he yelled at her.

"Oh, not need to be getting nasty," she said. She undid the strap around his neck and pulled it up a bit, fastening it down so it was in his mouth, keeping him from speaking.

"Now, this is going to hurt a bit worse," she said, picking up a hammer and a screwdriver from the table, and positioning the screwdriver over his wrist. He squirmed desperately, but was unable to move more than a little because of the straps. She brought the hammer down hard on the handle of the screwdriver, and he shouted out in pain despite the strap in his mouth, as it went about half way through, tearing through muscle and bone. She gave it another solid whack, and it went straight through, wrenching another agonized cry from him.

"There, that's more like it," she purred.

His screams grew louder as she twisted the screwdriver, bending it from side to side as blood flowed out freely into the bucket below. She finally pulled it out, and his screams faded to soft whimpers as she considered him, walking around to his other side and placing the screwdriver in the same place, raising the hammer. She looked at him, grinning.

"Shall I do it?" she asked. He would have spat at her, or cursed her if he hadn't had the leather strap in his mouth. Now, all he could do was glare at her, his left wrist still throbbing and pulsing with intense pain as his blood flowed into the bucket, a steady drip-drip-drip sound like someone had left a tap running.

"Hmm. Fortunately for you, I think you'd bleed out too fast if I did both of them," she said. She walked back around behind him, trailing her fingers lightly over his neck and drawing a repulsed shudder from him.

"Just hold on a moment," she said. Her tone was comforting, and it disgusted him. She brought out the razor, and he could feel the cold blade against the side of his neck, resting steadily for a moment, before pressing down slightly. He started to panic, but rather than go deeper, she drew it steadily down, creating a shallow cut on his neck. He wanted to sigh in relief at this, something he could handle.

Then she started slashing. Not cutting in the precise and careful manner she had been, just slashing randomly. He could feel that the cuts weren't very deep, definitely not much more than scratches, but he couldn't help groaning in pain at them. When she finished, the entire left side of his neck was stinging in pain, and he could feel blood dripping slowly from the cuts. She moved to the other side and started again, in the same manner, one cut to the center of his neck, deeper than all the rest would be, before she started slashing. He grit his teeth, determined not to make a sound, but made the mistake of clenching his fists, the action sending a jolt of sickening pain through his wrist, and wrenching a sharp cry from between his teeth. She stopped and stepped back from him, looking him over. She walked down to his feet, shaking her head and muttering to herself.

"Honestly, I should know to do this first by now," she said. Without hesitation, she drew the razor straight across the sole of his foot, gashing it deeply. He gasped in pain, unable to keep back a few muffled groans and whimpers of pain as she kept going, cut after cut, straight across his foot, all the way up to his toes. He could feel blood spilling from the cuts, and he was sure that they were the deepest he had received yet. She did the same on his other foot, except that she drew a shallow vertical slash along the length of his foot when she was finished. She stood, walking over to the table and wiping her razor off on a clean rag, before turning back to him.

"Makes it just a bit harder for you to get away," she explained, smiling. "Now I think that's quite enough for today. I don't want to waste you all at once, now do I? What with the hunting season being over... you're likely the last human face I'll see out here for months on end."

She went around blowing out the lamps, until only the one she'd come in with was left. She picked it up, patting his cheek before she left.

"Good night," she said, walking up the stairs and opening the trapdoor. He watched the light until the door closed, locking him once again in complete darkness. The only sounds were his labored breathing and the drip of his blood.


	3. Who Hurts Who

Dean knew that she was going to kill him. There was no alternative now. She had obviously been planning to kill him from the beginning, since she made no attempt to conceal her identity from him. So he was going to die, again, unless he could get away.

He didn't waste time while she was gone. He struggled against the straps in vain. It felt pointless, but it was the only thing he could do. He was freezing cold, and weakened from blood loss, and managed to do nothing more than aggravate his wounds.

Eventually, the trapdoor opened. He kept his eyes open this time as Clara descended. She carried a plate of food, and the smell of venison hit him from where he was bound. He hadn't realized until then just how hungry he was, and his stomach growled loudly. His eyes followed her as she walked past, putting the plate down on the table holding her tools. She undid the strap from his mouth, refastening it around his neck, and he wondered if she was going to feed him. Instead, she went back up the stairs, coming back down a moment later with the chair. She sat, picking up a knife and a fork and taking a bite. Dean chewed his lip, considering asking, but he wasn't quite that hungry yet. She watched him the whole time, though through most of it, he was watching the food.

She was taunting him intentionally.

She stood when the food was gone, and picked up the razor again, circling him.

"You'd better pray I don't get out of these," he said, tugging on the straps. His voice was hoarse.

She chuckled. "Oh really. And why is that?" she asked.

"Because I'll kill you," he said.

"Hmm. Slowly and painfully I hope?" she asked, her eyes shining.

"Won't need to. You'll get plenty of that where you're going," he said.

"Well, well. I wouldn't have taken you for the religious type," she said, running the tip of the razor lightly over his abdomen. "Tell me, do you really believe that the evil go to hell when they die?"

"I know they do," he said.

"You seem awfully certain for someone who's never crossed that line," she said.

"What makes you think I haven't?" he asked.

"You're here," she said.

"People come back sometimes," he said.

"Interesting. And you think I'm crazy," she said, grinning as she slashed a thin line straight across his stomach. He flinched at the sudden pain, and her grin widened.

* * *

Dean never knew whether it was day or night down in the cellar, or the basement, or the dungeon, as it might be. But they settled into a routine. She came down with food, and he was too proud to beg for some, and when she was finished eating, she hurt him. Over time, she reduced him to begging and pleading for her to stop. She cut at him, not in every way imaginable, because they'd done that in hell, and they had been a lot more inventive about it, but she almost did it as well as they had. She burnt him, and drove her screwdrivers into him, slashed at him with her razors, and when it was all over, claimed that she was being merciful using razors instead of a dull blade.

He knew from experience that she was right. Cuts from dull blades hurt worse.

At times, he could almost believe he was back in hell. True, hell was a lot hotter most of the time, but sometimes it would take off the burn and try to freeze it's occupants. She told him that he was lasting the longest out of anyone she'd ever done before. She chuckled, and told him that he was the most fun.

He didn't know how long it was until he finally cracked. One day, or night, he couldn't discern which, she came down the steps with her meal, and he was so hungry that staying conscious had become a struggle. He still had the strap in his mouth from last night, and he twisted his head as far as he could to try and keep her in sight. She'd made it very clear to him that if he wanted food, all he had to do was beg.

"Cla a," he tried to speak past the strap.

"Mmm-hmm?" she said, sitting down at the table.

"Iiiwnt foo," he struggled to speak clearly. He would have swallowed to clear his throat, but it was hard to swallow with his tongue pushed back so far by the strap.

"I'm sorry, I can't understand you," she said tauntingly, coming closer.

"Foo, uh wn foo," he said.

"Food?" she asked. He nodded, the action hurting his neck, both the cuts and the bruises.

She hummed, seeming elated by this answer.

She undid the strap, letting it fall to the side, and he licked dry lips, swallowing. She had dried fish which she had steamed to soften. She speared a piece on the fork, and dangled it over his mouth. He leaned up as much as he could, groaning at the pain the effort caused him. She kept it as close to him as she could without him getting it, and it drove him mad to smell it, to have it so close.

"God damn you," he growled hoarsely, letting himself fall back in defeat.

"Don't waste your breath, or his time. I damned myself perfectly well," she said. She waved the fish in front of his nose, and he couldn't ignore it, but neither could he reach it with his mouth.

"You know, I would be perfectly happy to give this to you... if you said the magic word," she said teasingly.

"Please?" he asked.

"Please what?" she countered.

"Please, can I have that fish? Please?" he whimpered the words softly, opting to appease her and eat so that on the slim chance he made it out of the straps, he would have some energy to at least try to escape.

"Yes you may," she said, putting it within his reach. He leaned up slightly, taking it in his mouth, and she watched him while he tried not to choke himself on it.

She fed him the rest of it, looking just as pleased now as when she was slicing into him. She offered the cup of water to him when the fish was gone.

"Drink?" she asked.  
He nodded, and she held it to his lips, tilting it. He watched her warily over the rim of the cup, until she took it away, before he would have liked her to.

"So," she said, turning to her table of tools. "That aside, what shall we-"

She was interrupted by someone knocking at the door. Her head whipped around, alarm clear on her features. Dean opened his mouth to scream for help, but her hand was there before he could draw the breath for it.

"Shut up," she hissed violently. He struggled against her as she reached for something on the table. He thrashed and squirmed and bit her hand, but she clenched her teeth and kept it there grimly. She reached what she wanted, and took her hand away as the knocking got louder, more insistent. He opened his mouth again to try to scream, but she crammed a rag into his mouth, despite his wriggling and muffled cries.

"One moment, I'm undressed," Clara yelled up, and the knocking ceased. She drew the strap across his mouth, holding the rag in, and then ran up the stairs quietly, shutting the trapdoor behind her. Dean struggled desperately, making as much noise as he could with the gag in his mouth. It was a pitiful amount.

"Yes?" he heard Clara asking.

"Hi, my name is Sam Winchester," he heard a familiar voice say. He tried to push harder against the straps, choking on the rag as it was pushed into his throat by the strap. "I'm looking for my brother Dean. Would you mind looking at a few photos, just to see if you'd seen him?"

"Of course."

"Thank you. He disappeared a few months ago. These woods are the last place we know he was."

"Oh yes, you know, he did stop by here, about... oh, it must have been two weeks ago? He offered to split my firewood for me, and I made him dinner," Clara said.

Lying cunt, Dean thought. The rag was pushed even further down his throat by his efforts, and he gagged, his entire body convulsing. He stilled struggling to breath past it, and unable to make a sound.

"He... er, he stayed the night, and was gone when I woke up. Has something happened to him?" she asked.

"We don't know. Some hikers found his car in a ravine, about twenty or so miles south of here. There was blood in it, and the authorities are saying it's his. They think he crashed, got hurt, but walked away from it," Sam said.  
"My god. Out into this wilderness? At this time of year? Is there anything more I can do to help?" she asked, sounding concerned. Dean tried to push the rag out of his throat, gagging again as it scraped around a bit but didn't budge.

"No, I'm- I'm afraid not. Thanks for your time," Sam said.

"Alright. Good luck finding him," she said.

"Right," Sam said.

Dean heard the door close, and felt like sobbing.

The trapdoor opened, and Clara stormed down the stairs with a thick stick, anger written all over her features. She held up her bloody hand for him to see.

"I believe we've talked about biting before," she said quietly. He cringed away from her, even as she raised the club over her head. She brought it down on his ribs savagely, wrenching a scream from him that was barely audible through the rag. She kept going, beating him brutally until she seemed to tire herself out. She dropped the club, her breathing labored, and a look of satisfaction coming over her.

"Just a goodbye present before I leave you for today," she said, walking around to his right side, snatching a knife off the table on her way. She grabbed his hand, trying to straighten out his fingers, and he resisted, trying to clench his hand back into a fist, fearing what she might do. She finally won, holding his fingers down with almost all of her weight. She pressed the tip of the knife into his palm, letting his fingers go and pushing down on it, so far that the tip of the blade buried itself in the table he was strapped to. His fingers curled back in on their own, getting cut on the blade. She pulled it out, grabbing his head roughly in her hands.

"I hurt you. Not the other way around Winchester," she hissed.

She slapped him, tossed the knife carelessly onto the table and stomped up the stairs, leaving the lamps lit.

The pain Dean was in was excruciating. He bit down on the rag, a wave of hopelessness washing over him. He realized that his entire family was looking for him. Chances were they would never find him, dead or alive. He squeezed his eyes shut to stop the tears from coming at that thought. Despair took him for a moment. His hand was killing him, and he could feel the hot, slick blood from the wound there pooling on the table beneath him. His wrist was coated in it from the struggle, sticky and-

Dean's eyes popped open in revelation. He tried to look down, but the strap over his mouth stopped him. Regardless, he tugged experimentally, and his hand slipped a bit out of the strap. He almost stopped breathing, stilling in shock for a moment, before pulling his hand as hard as he could. It kept coming, slowly, painfully sliding out of the strap, the lubrication provided by his blood just sufficient to allow his hand to pass. He bit down hard on the rag as he pulled his hand through, holding back groans of pain.

Then his hand was free. He held it up wonderingly.

 _Never thought I'd be so glad to see my own blood_ _,_ he thought giddily.

He undid the strap over his mouth, gritting his teeth at the pain in his hand, but able to bear it because this was the first, and probably only chance he would get to escape. He pulled the rag out of his mouth, throwing it to the side, before reaching over and undoing the strap on his left arm, and the sitting up to do his legs. He hissed in pain as cuts stretched and reopened at his movements,

Slowly, he swung his legs over one side of the table. He put them on the ground, and tried to stand, barely keeping himself from crying out in pain. He leaned back over the table, resting for a moment, before swallowing and standing, trying to walk with his feet cut and bruised. He grabbed the knife, and walked up the stairs, taking a breath, and pushing the trapdoor open. It was made difficult by the rug over it, but he did it, and found the room above empty. He could hear Clara out back, and from the sounds, she was chopping wood. Dean briefly considered killing her, but he was weak, and she had an axe. Better to get away and come back for her.

He made his way to the door and opened it, the cold blasting him immediately. He ignored it, and ran out into the night and the woods. He waited until he was a bit away from the cabin, before he started running through the forest, branches dragging at the bare skin of his torso, the frigid winter air stinging his skin and wounds as he raced away from the small wooden cabin as quickly as he possibly could with the condition his feet were in. He stumbled, groaning in pain as he felt something grinding in his foot, his gasping breath too loud in the otherwise silent, dark night. The moon shone it's light dimly through the clouds and the bare branches of the trees from time to time, and those were his only glimpses of what he was running towards. He didn't really care where he ended up though, only that he was getting away.

He saw a light ahead, and ran toward it, waving his arms and yelling for help, hope kindled in him for the first time. It was a flashlight, and he couldn't see who was behind it. He ran to them, collapsing a few feet away and holding his hand out to block the light, painfully bright to him after so long in the dark.

"Help me... help," he gasped, ignoring the pain in the cuts to his abdomen as he fought to catch his breath. "There's a woman- back there... she tried to-"

He cut off as his eyes adjusted to the brightness, and he saw Clara. He scrambled back, dirt and sticks and leaves and stones getting in and reopening his various cuts.

"Stay away from me!" he screamed, trying to get to his feet. She rushed towards him, and he turned, running frantically for a few feet, only to run smack into the truck of a thick tree. His vision blurred, and he fell to the ground, the last thing he saw was his tormentor, walking calmly towards him.


	4. Respite

Dean came to slowly. The first thing he became aware of was the warmth. He hadn't been this warm in a long time. He could tell it wasn't a dream, because he was still in so much pain. Even so, he didn't want to open his eyes. He wanted to go back to sleep, melt away into whatever soft thing he was laying on.

Then he became aware of hands on his arm, and a mild stinging sensation. The the events of the past few hours came rushing back to him with a horrible jolt. His eyes shot open in alarm, and he saw her. She was right there at his side, rubbing something into the cuts on his arms. He jerked away from her immediately.

"Get away!" he yelled, scrambling away and inadvertently backing himself into a corner. He tried to stand, but the cuts on his feet had been reopened in his mad dash, and he cried out and fell back to the ground.

"Whoa!" she protested, holding her hands out.

Dean shook with adrenaline as his eyes darted to take in his surroundings. He was in a cave lit by torches, and he had been on a bed of furs before he fled.

"Wait, I'm not her!" the woman said quickly. "Listen to me, please. My name is Diane. Clara Witford is my twin sister. I'm not going to hurt you, and I swear she doesn't know where we are!"

She held out the bottle for him to see.

"I'm going to patch you up, and then we can get you back to where ever you belong," she said. The bottle she was holding was hydrogen peroxide. Disinfectant.

It took Dean's exhausted brain a few minutes to work through what she'd said, and a few more to decide how to react. This was quickly shaping up to be one of the strangest situations he'd ever been in his entire life. Which was saying a lot.

Still, it seemed better than the situation he'd been in only hours ago. Warily, he nodded, and tried to stand to get back to the furs. He managed, holding onto the wall. Clara- no, Diane, approached him cautiously, testing to see if he would bolt again. He held her eyes as she took his arm and put it around her shoulder. The action stretched the cuts on his arm and sides painfully, but the relief in his feet was worth it. She shouldered nearly his full weight and helped him back to the makeshift bed, letting him fall into it.

"What's your name?" she asked, kneeling beside him.

"Dean," he answered.

She nodded, and continued her work silently, picking up her rag and pouring more disinfectant onto it so she could dab at the cuts on his arms. He watched her, seeing that she bore a remarkable resemblance to her sister. A glance at her arms told him that they even had the same scars.

He wondered if this was just another one of her tortures. After a moment of thought, he decided to keep his guard up, but not to act too paranoid. If this was a trick, he would play along. Bide his time until he could make another break for it.

Something else was nagging him too. That name, Witford. Why did it seem so familiar?

"Your sister's a basket case," he said finally, breaking the silence.

Diane shook her head. "I'm sorry about her. She just gets... unpredictable when she's left alone," she said.

"You think?" he asked.

"I know. And I apologize on her behalf. I try to keep an eye on her, but it's just me, and I can't be here all the time."

"It's just you and her out here?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Did it ever occur to you to commit her or something? I don't know, maybe after she started mutilating and killing humans? Children, at that," he snapped, anger kindled in him at this woman. She had sat idle through all her sister's atrocities, when she could have done something to stop them.

"You don't understand. It's complicated," Diane said softly.

"You're right, I don't understand. I mean, I get it, sort of. She's your sister. You want to protec- OW!" he jerked his arm away as one of the cuts started stinging badly, white foam forming quickly inside of the wound.

"It's infected," she informed him, pulling his arm back toward her. She wiped away the foam and poured more disinfectant on, straight from the bottle this time. It foamed less violently time but it still stung.

"I know," Dean said.

Dean watched as she worked in silence. He didn't feel up to arguing with her about her part of the blame for Clara's actions.

"I know what you must think of me," she said after a long time, surprising him. "Believe me, I think the same of myself sometimes. But I'm not brave enough to do what needs to be done."

She shook her head, expression bitter.

"Anyone else in my family would have been able to do it. But I can't. I guess that makes me the weak one."

Her words were genuine, and struck a chord with Dean.

"Hey," Dean sighed, meeting her eyes and holding her gaze for the first time. They were brown, like her sister's, but a warmer shade. Closer to chocolate than coal. "I know. Trust me, I do. I've got a brother. I love the hell out of the kid. And I know that he'd never do anything like this, but... but if he did- I'm not sure I'd be strong enough to do what I needed to either."

She smiled, but said nothing more as she finished with all the cuts on his arms, bandaging the deeper ones before moving to his chest and sides. Dean tried his best to stay awake, doubt of Diane's story plaguing him, but he was just too tired. Diane made her way down his legs quietly, letting him drift off to sleep. She bandaged his feet, and a few places on his legs, before covering him with another fur and leaving the cave. She concealed it's tall, narrow entrance with branches before she headed out, hoping it would afford her sister's latest victim a bit more protection. She needed to go back to the cabin, safely away from Dean, and confront Clara.

* * *

Dean was woken by a crash. He sat bolt upright, the winced and groaned at the pain that the quick action brought. The crash had come from the other side of the cave, where a pile of cans had toppled to the ground. One of them, corned beef, rolled to rest near his feet.

Against one of the backmost cave walls were about ten different piles of cans, and Diane was in the midst of them, cursing and gathering up the cans that had fallen.

"Morning," she greeted when she noticed that he was awake. She grabbed a bundle from the floor and tossed it to him. He caught it, and saw it was his clothes.

"How'd you get these?" he asked.

"I stole them back," she said as she stacked cans back.

"How? What about your sister?" he asked.

"I, uh... I talked to her. She wasn't happy," Diane said carefully.

"Talked? About what?"

"You."

"What did you say?" Dean pressed.

"I told her it was over. That I took you far away, where she can't get to you."

"Did she believe you?"

"Mmm... probably not," Diane sighed. "But don't worry. She won't find you. And you'll be out of here altogether soon enough."

"How soon?"

"As soon as you can walk."

"I can walk now."

"Not as far as we'll need to," Diane informed him. "The nearest road is ten miles away. The nearest town, nearly a hundred."

"I can make it," he insisted.

"It's too risky. Clara's out looking for you. It's the dead of winter out there. I know my sister, I know the land around here, and most importantly, I know the extent of your injuries," Diane said firmly. "The gashes on your feet aren't your biggest problem. All those bruises on your stomach? You need time to recover from a beating like that. It's a miracle you haven't already ruptured your spleen."

Dean didn't like it, but he knew she was probably right. The was she spoke reminded him of his smartass little brother. Sam would have told him the same thing had he been here. Strategy over strength.

He was silent for a moment, before he nodded.

"How long?"

"A week or two, probably."

Dean put his clothes on for the first time in a while. There were so many bandages on his feet that they were about twice their normal size, so he left his shoes and socks against one of the cave walls. Diane brought him a can of corned beef with a fork stuck into the hunk of cold meat. Dean remembered that he was starved almost to death, and grabbed the food so fast that he knew it came off as rude. He scarfed it down in minutes, nearly choking a few times.

"Thanks," he said finally, feeling a little bad that he had waited so long. "Sorry, I just-"

"It's fine. I was hoping to have it heated up before you woke, but... I figured you wouldn't want to wait," Diane shrugged. "I can't say that you can help yourself to anything... that's roughly two month supply for me alone. One month tops for two, and I'll need to hunt to supplement it. But if you're still hungry, there's beans, corn, chili... more corned beef."

"I, uh... I wouldn't say no to some beans," Dean admitted.

She handed him a can, and dug into one of her own. He watched her for a while, knowing that there was something he should let her know, but also fearing on some level that if she did know, she might not be so keen on helping him. He couldn't hold his silence though. There was something about Diane that made him feel like he owed her honesty.

"You do know when I get out I'm bringing people back for your sister," he said.

Her eyes were downcast, but she shrugged.

"Then she won't be able to hurt anyone else," she said. She was trying to sound casual, but Dean could hear the sadness in her voice. He knew that there was a story to be told here, and he wanted badly to ask what it was, pry past everything she would throw at him to avoid the truth, and wrench it from her. But he knew better. Knew that he wouldn't get anywhere. Knew that it would be selfish of him to demand her to tell a story that she obviously didn't want to share. Chances were, she wished she couldn't remember. Dean knew what that was like from personal experience, and couldn't bring himself to press. He went back to his, slowly this time, not as famished as he had been only moments earlier.

When they were both finished, Diane tossed the cans into a pile towards the back of the cave, then grabbed a bow and a quiver of arrows from a natural ledge on the cave wall. She pulled a half-finished arrow from the quiver, and sat by the fire facing the cave entrance. The bow drew Dean's attention. It was very simple, constructed of a pale wood, but looked hand-made.

"Did you make that?" he asked, nodding to it.

Diane shook her head.

"It was a gift," she said, running her fingers over the smooth wood fondly, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"Someone special?"

"My brother," she replied.

"You've got a brother?"

"I had a brother," she corrected him. "Two of them."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be. They're in a better place now," she said. She started whittling away at the half-formed arrow shaft, stripping the remaining bark.

Dean looked around, really taking in the details of the cave for the first time. There wasn't much to see. The cans stacked in one corner, a few buckets that looked like they held water, the furs that he was lying on, and a shadowy nook at the very back of the cave. It was too dark for him to see into, though he could make out a few indistinct shapes in the shadows. His eyes skimmed over the entrance, and passed over a few scratches in the cave roof above it. They darted back, realizing that the scratches formed a familiar pattern.

There was a devil's trap over the cave entrance.

"You're a hunter," Dean realized aloud.

That was why the name Witford sounded familiar. He'd once worked with a hunter called Jared Witford. They'd both been tracking the same ghost.

She looked at him oddly, well concealed alarm showing ever so slightly through her eyes.

"Of course," she said carefully. "I wouldn't be able to survive out here otherwise."

"Not that kind of hunter," he said, his tone full of meaning.

She straightened. "What do you know about hunting?" she asked, stressing the word.

"It's the business my family's in." He nodded towards the trap over the entrance. "Devils trap. Used to snag demons."

"Well. That's..." she started chuckling.

"What's funny?" he demanded.

"Nothing," she said, forcing a straight face. "Just..." she started laughing again, so hard that she had to thrust a hand out to keep herself from falling over. She calmed eventually. "What kind of hunter gets himself into the situation you did?" she asked.

"Hmmf," he grumbled, folding his arms over his chest.

"Right. Okay, I won't laugh," she said, resuming a straight face. "Seriously though, how small can the world be?"

"Did you get into it by yourself, or was it a family thing?" Dean probed, figuring that if she could laugh around the topic, it must not be too bad.

"Family thing. None of us were raised hunters, but my older brother, Jared fell in with some, and kind of brought trouble home with him." She shrugged. "We all learned the tricks, but he and Clara were the only ones who ever really went out looking for things to hunt," she said.

"Is that what happened? The life drove her..." he made a crazy gesture with his fingers at his temple.

"I don't know," she sighed. "We were always close. And honestly, I think that she was always a bit unstable."

After that, they lapsed into silence again, and this time, it remained unbroken.


	5. The Storm

Over the next several days, they fell into a routine of eating, sleeping and carefully guarding themselves. Diane let him have one of her knives, because she went out foraging frequently. It was winter, and game was scarce, and she rarely came back with anything at all, and they would eat canned food. It was reserves for the winter, and she didn't like doing it.

They talked, when they were both awake and in the cave. Diane usually wasn't the talkative type, but he was easy to talk to. They traded stories, and she found that he was from almost the same background as her. No one in his family but his mother had anything to do with hunting until his grandfather(mothers father) showed up one day and dragged it all in with him when Dean was four. The boys had always been discouraged from seeking out things to hunt, but both of them had done it in their lives. When Dean was 17, he'd gone off alone in a hunting spree after a fallout with his father, and he hadn't gone back home for almost a year. It was in that time that he'd briefly brushed against her brother Jared.

She told him all about her family. There was her older brother Jared, then her and her sister, and then the youngest of the group, Anthony. She held a lot back from him though, and she knew that he could tell. But he never pressed, and she was grateful for that. She came back one day carrying armloads of firewood. She dumped it in by the cans of food, being careful not to topple the piles, before turning to Dean.

"There's a storm blowing in, a big one," she said.

"How do you know? I didn't know you got the weather channel all the way out here," Dean said.

"I know, trust me. It's silent out there, completely still, and there're clouds coming this way fast. I've been through a few of these before, and chances are we're going to get snowed in. I'm collecting wood while I can, and we're going to have to burn the fire low until it passes," she said.

"I thought we were going to try and get me out of here by tonight," he protested.

"It's going to be here before then, and I doubt there's anyone on the road. If there are, it's idiots who don't listen to the radio," she said. "It's going to have to be put off until the storm passes." She walked out of the cave, leaving him staring after her, disappointed.

A few hours later, there was a pretty good sized pile of wood alongside the food, and the wind was howling outside, snow falling and being whipped every which way so it was impossible for him to see. He waited anxiously, hoping Diane could find her way back. He breathed a sigh of relief when she walked through the entrance of the cave, holding one last load of wood.

"God damn it's cold out there," she said, shivering. She dumped the wood onto the pile, and then darted over to the pile of furs, taking her boots off quickly and pressing against him under the covers for warmth. They'd slept this way every single night because it was the most practical arrangement(And there was only one pile of furs). He had expected a lot more to come of the arrangement than did, but she stubbornly refused his efforts to do anything more than sleep, fully clothed, beside one another. That didn't mean he was going to give up.

"I could warm you up if you liked," he said, smiling coyly.

"You are, so shut up," she said, making him jump slightly when she laid her freezing hands flat against his stomach. Most of the cuts were healed enough that the bandages had come off by now, leaving thin, but bright stripes of scar tissue covering him. She'd given him a lotion she'd been holding onto since high school that made scars go away over time, though she claimed it was too early for him to see the results.

"Hmm, I don't know," he said, using the gesture to his advantage, taking her hands in his. "You still feel pretty cold."

"Do you ever think about anything else?" she asked.

He considered. "No, not really," he decided.

"Men. You, and your one track minds," she said, rolling her eyes.

"One track's all we need," he replied, rolling his hips towards her slightly, encouraged. This was the farthest one of these debates had ever gotten.

"Right. Tell you what, I'll make you a deal. I'll let you, 'warm me up', on one condition," she said.

"What's that?" he asked.

"We both keep all of our clothes on," she said, grinning devilishly. He let his breath out in a frustrated puff.

"You're such a prood," he complained.

"Well you're a slut," she shot back.

"Ouch, I'm offended," he said sarcastically. "What would even make you think that?"

"This conversation. The ones that came before it. And also, I'm pretty sure that my sister didn't physically overpower you," Diane said.

"I didn't sleep with her," he said, the idea making him nauseous.

"Right. I'd bet anything that you meant to, and she drugged you or knocked you out or something," Diane said.

He didn't respond to that, thinking. "You know, that's probably her problem," he said after a pause.

"What?" she asked.

"She probably hasn't been laid in years," he said.

"That's not funny," Diane snapped, though he could see that she was trying not to laugh.

"You know, you should get some while you can, so you don't end up like that," he said, his hand trailing down her side. She smacked it away under the blankets, scowling.

"This conversation is over," she said.

"Because you know I'm right and you can't think of any good argument," he said, sounding very self-satisfied.

"Shut up," she said, turning her back to him, though she stayed pressed close to him.

He just grinned.


	6. Mistakes Sans Regret

The rest of that day was the coldest they'd had to make it through yet, the wind blowing into the cave and lowering the fire while they huddled together, even Dean's thoughts of anything but staying warm driven from his mind.

They slept, and when Dean woke it was a bit warmer. He perked up, at first thinking that the storm had passed. The fire had died down overnight and he frowned, thinking it was darker than it should be, even without the fire. And oddly warm for there having been no fire, though it was still cold. He slid out from under the furs, holding onto the wall for support, since it still hurt to put his full weight on his feet and walked just far enough to see why it was so dark. The narrow cave entrance was almost entirely blocked up snow, only a small opening near the top left uncovered. He could still hear the wind howling outside, telling him that the storm was still going strong.

"Is it blocked up with snow again?" Diane asked, stretching under the covers.

"Yeah. Again?" Dean questioned.

"There's this stupid tree above the entrance, and whenever we get a lot of snow, it dumps it all down and blocks me in. I meant to chop it down, but things popped up and I forgot," she said. She rolled under the covers, pulling them up over her head.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Well, not much point in trying to unblock it since we can't leave anyways, by the sound of the wind out there. I would just leave it, since we'll be warmer, and sit the storm out," she said, her voice muffled by the blanket.

"So you're just going back to sleep," he said.

"Mmm-hmm," she replied from under the covers.

Dean looked back at the cave entrance, and shook his head. He knew this was going to be a long, boring wait, probably even less exciting than the times when Diane went out hunting. He crawled back under the covers with Diane, but not intending to go back to sleep.

"Quit it," Diane grumbled as he pressed up against her. He ignored her, laying a few kisses to her neck. "Seriously, if we were back anywhere near civilization, I would have put a restraining order out on you by now."

"Nah, you like it," Dean said.

"Nope," Diane, said, scooting away from him, but he followed.

"I can tell you do," he said.

"Because you read minds?" she asked, chuckling softly as she pushed his hand off her side.

"No, because you're the feisty type, and little bit self-righteous too," Dean said.

"I'm not self-righteous," Diane protested. "And how would either of those things indicate to you that I like it when you breathe down my neck at night and slobber all over me?"

"You'd slap me if you didn't like it," Dean said,

"If I slapped you, would you leave me alone?" Diane asked.

"Depends on what kind of slap it was," Dean said, running a hand down her leg. She smacked it under the covers, and he withdrew it.

"Now you're just being mean," Dean pouted.

"Did I hurt your feelings?" Diane asked in jest.

"Yes," Dean said, keeping the pouting face on.

Diane sighed. "I'm pretty sure if I tell you this, you're going to use it against me," she said. "It's not that I don't want to."

"I knew it," Dean said triumphantly.

"BUT... I can't," Diane said.

"Why not?" Dean asked, frowning.

"It's a long story," Diane sighed. "But it's better if I just get you out of here, no strings attached, no more complications."

"I've got time to hear a long story," Dean said, glancing back at the blocked entrance.

"It isn't one I'm keen on sharing around," Diane said. "Do you trust me?"

"Well I've been trusting you not to either let me starve or feed me to a bear these past few weeks," Dean said.

"Then can you trust me on this?" she asked, pleading with her eyes.

Dean sighed, lying back and giving her some room on the bed of furs to herself.

"Fine," he said resignedly.

"Thank you," Diane said.

* * *

Dean found that he had been right. The next few days were absolutely boring. And Diane didn't help any either. She spent most of the time sleeping, getting up to eat, and showing him the pot towards the back of the cave that was going to have to serve as the bathroom until the entrance cleared. Sometimes he wondered if she was really sleeping, or just laying there. A couple of times he leaned over to make sure she was still breathing, afraid that maybe she'd been smothered by the furs or something. Aside from having gotten attached to her, he didn't know where the road was exactly, and while he was certain that he could handle Clara while he wasn't drugged or dying of blood loss, he wasn't keen on running into her.

"Looks like it's starting to melt again," Diane said on the third day, noticing small puddles of water on the cave floor.

"At this rate we're going to get flooded," Dean observed.

"Yep. We're gonna have to move up there," she said, gesturing to the back of the cave, which was a few feet higher than the front of the cave. She stood, getting up from the bed of furs and grabbing one end of it.

"Come one, give me a hand with this," she said. He got up and moved over to the other side of the bed, and gripped the bottom fur. They lifted at the same time, and Dean realized the furs were actually a lot heavier than they looked at first. Both he and Diane were out of breath by the time the made it all the way to the back of the cave. Diane grabbed the oil lamps and brought them to the back of the cave, lighting it. Dean hadn't seen this part of the cave before. But now that it was lit, he could see that the walls were completely black. Diane saw him looking at them and shook her head.

"The reason I stay in the front of the cave is because the smoke from the fire can vent over there. I almost killed myself before I figured that out," she explained.

"Ah," Dean said. He sat down on the newly situated bed. "So that was, what, when you first exiled yourself out here?" he asked.

"Yep," Diane said shortly.

From what Dean had managed to piece together, there had been some kind of accident that had killed everyone in Diane's family except for her and her sister and they'd come out to live alone in the woods. But he could never get Diane to tell him why. He assumed it was because she wanted to get her sister as far away from people(People that she could strap down and slice up) as she could. As they'd gotten to know one another a little better, Diane had started to loosen up a bit. She laughed now, and bantered back and forth with him. But he could tell that there was still an underlying sadness, an overwhelming one that was weighing her down. Like she had some terrible burden on her shoulders. He wished she would tell him what it was, so that he could help her, but he didn't know how to ask, and doubted she would tell him anyways. Her answer to a lot of his questions was simply, 'It's complicated'."

She stood, and started moving the canned food a little bit higher, and Dean went down to help her.

"Can water even get into the cans?" Dean asked.

Diane paused, and shrugged. "No, I guess not," she said, setting the cans she was holding back down neatly. She walked back up to the furs, and Dean followed.

"So you're just going to sleep more?" he asked quietly.

"That's what I was planning on," Diane said, though she didn't lie down.

"You must be awfully tired," Dean remarked.

"Not really. I just... don't have much else to do," Diane said.

Dean leaned over suddenly, capturing her lips with his without thinking about it too much. He wanted her, and she'd said that she wanted him(Sort of). Diane tensed, and tried to push him away, but he pushed back, backing her up against the wall and gathering her hands in one of his, holding them above her head. She still struggled, but he held her still until she finally gave in, her mouth opening under his to let him in. He let the forcefulness drain from his actions, letting go of her hands and pulling her close to him by her waist instead. She let her hands snake around him, pulling him to her and bringing a knee up, rubbing his erection through the fabric of his pants. He moaned into the kiss, thrusting towards her with his hips in response, and eliciting a moan from her. She broke away gasping, but his lips didn't leave her, just moved to her neck.

"Dean, no," she said, coming back to her senses and pushing him. He didn't budge, instead slipping a hand below her waist, and rubbing over her clothed heat, drawing helpless mewls of pleasure from her. He moved both hands around to her ass, and she yelped in surprise as he lifted her up, pulling her legs around his hips backing her against the wall, pinning her hands above her head again and kissing her. She could feel his hard cock through his jeans, pressing between her legs, and she felt herself practically dripping ready for him. She moaned at the dominant gesture, and she wanted to give in and let him take her so badly.

He thrust against her, and she moaned, the desperation she was trying so hard to conceal showing through. He took his lips off hers, moving to whisper in her ear as he pressed his erection as hard to her as he could.

"Do you feel that?" he asked, his voice low and thick with desire. "Imagine that inside of you." He thrust against her again.

"Ohhhh fuck," she moaned, letting her head fall back. He gathered both of her hands in one of his, moving the other down to stroke one of her breasts firmly through her shirt.

"I will if you let me," he said.

"Dean..." she moaned his name, shaking her head. He felt her nipple through the fabric, and squeezed.

"Come on baby," he said coaxingly. "Just say yes."

She leaned forward suddenly, kissing him desperately, all tongue and teeth, her arms wrapping around him tightly as she bucked her hips into his. He smirked into the kiss, holding her tightly and stepping away from the wall, walking over to the pile of furs that served as a bed. He quickly stripped her shirt off, and her bra, before ridding her of her pants and underwear. She pulled his shirt off of him, and moved to his pants, but he pushed her down, holding her wrists at her sides.

He licked her breasts, and she moaned, bucking her hips up towards him as he took one of her nipples into his mouth, sucking on it hard and biting gently. She whined, and he smirked at her impatience, moving down so his head was between her legs. He let her hands go to hold her thighs, and smiled up at her devilishly, before he ducked his head, tongue flicking out to taste her. He couldn't help a moan of his own as he realized how wet she was, shoving his tongue into her tight entrance hungrily as he sucked. She writhed in pleasure as he sucked her, her hand on top of his head pressing him to her harder. He put a finger on her clit, and she fell back, almost screaming as he stroked it quickly, still sucking her, his tongue still moving inside of her.

"Dean! Oh god, Dean please!" she begged, not knowing what she was begging for. His hand and his mouth switched places, and he pushed two fingers inside of her tight heat as he licked and sucked and bit gently at her clit, his fingers pushing deep inside of her and pressing against that spot that he couldn't reach with his tongue. He groaned, his cock so stiff it almost hurt, but determined to finish her. He sped his pace up and she shouted his name again, before she came, falling back against the furs.

He sat up, his hand and face covered in her fluids, but he ignored them, panting as he quickly undid the zipper on his pants, and discarded them, freeing his cock. He stroked it firmly from base to tip a few times, moaning at his own touch and unable to go any longer without a touch of some kind. He kept stroking himself, until Diane leaned back up, swatting his hands away from it and laying on her belly between his legs. She licked the tip of his cock, and he thrust up towards her desperately. She took about three inches of him into her mouth, stroking the rest of his length with one of her hands, while the other squeezed and rubbed his balls in time with the bobbing motion she was using to suck him. She took more and more of him in, until she was bobbing on his entire length, about an inch of him in her throat. She swallowed around him, and he cursed in pleasure, hands fisting in the fur as he thrust up into her mouth.

He pulled her off of him abruptly, turning her around so she was on her hands and knees facing away from him. He leaned over her, rubbing the head of his cock against her wet heat, and thrusting in. They moaned in unison as he started thrusting into her roughly, one of his hands fisted in her hair, and the other below her, squeezing her breasts tightly.

"Damn it Diane," he moaned, thrusting deep inside of her.

"Fuck, Dean, HARDER! OH FUCK!" she screamed. He started pounded into her, pleasure shooting through him as they both shouted senselessly, both approaching climax quickly. She came for the second time, clenching around him as her back arched. The sudden tightness around his cock drove Dean over the edge and he shouted her name to the cave ceiling as he came.

He collapsed beside her breathing raggedly, his eyes closed. She moved close to him and she could feel his heart beating rapidly. She stroked his cheek, running a hand through his hair. His mouth was open in an O shape, small tremors ripping through him. She noticed that his physical reaction to extreme pleasure was almost the same as to severe pain.

He opened his eyes, looking up at her through his lashes, his mouth still open. Unable to resist, she leaned down, licking his bottom lip. He nipped at her, and their lips met, each wrapping their arms around the other as they twined together, soft moans passing between them.

"See, now that wasn't so bad," Dean said.

Diane bit her lip. "I shouldn't have done that," she said.

"Do you regret it?" he asked.

Diane thought for a second. "No. I don't," she said.

He kissed her again, smiling and she decided not to voice the rest of the thought. That while she didn't regret it now, she might later.


	7. Puritate Simplicitatis

By the next morning, almost all of the snow had melted away from the front of the cave, leaving a foot deep puddle in the lower part of the cave.

"It'll drain out," Diane reassured Dean as she pulled her clothes back on. "We should eat and get going," she said.

"Do we have to?" Dean asked, sitting up behind her.

"It'd be a good idea. Besides, you have to go and send people back to take care of my sister, right?" Diane said sadly, not turning to face him as she pulled her shoes on.

"Yeah," Dean said, trying not to feel guilty as he grabbed his pants from where they were lying. Even if it did hurt Diane, he had to do it. He knew that she understood.

At least, he hoped to god she did.

They ate in silence after that, before Diane grabbed a hunting knife from her stash of weapons, and they headed out. The ground outside was covered in snow, and there were small mountains of it piled here and there from it falling off of trees.

Dean had a few things he wanted to ask Diane, but as usual with her, he didn't know what to say. 'Diane, I know I'm going to turn your twin sister over to the authorities, and probably have her either thrown in prison or the nuthouse for life, but when all this is over, do you maybe want to see me again sometime?' He didn't think so.

But she understood that he had to do it, didn't she? he thought. She knew her sister had a few screws loose and needed to be put away where she couldn't hurt anyone else.

But that didn't mean that she would like it at all, he argued with himself. After all, no matter what Sammy did, would he ever want to see his brother go to jail(Or a crazy hospital) for the rest of his life? No, he definitely would not. He didn't know if it was different between Diane and Clara, but it really couldn't be too-

"Stop," Diane said from ahead of him. He did.

"What is it?" he asked.

She peeked around a hill of snow, and then closed her eyes, pursing her lips. Dean walked over to her quietly, and looked for himself, seeing Clara's cabin.

"Do you think she's home?" he asked Diane softly.

"Probably," Diane said.

"Would she come after us if she saw us walk past?" he asked.

"That's not what I'm worried about," Diane said, her teeth gritted.

"What then?" Dean asked.

"Look, I can't do this. The road's about two miles east. Try to hurry," she said, handing him the compass that she had, and her knife. "I'm sorry."

"I don't understand, what-"

"You're never going to understand Dean, and it's better that way. Just go," Diane said. "And when you come back, it'd better be to take care of my sister."

She started walking towards the cabin, and Dean watched her for a few seconds, mystified by this new turn of events, half wanting to run after her and demand answers, but not wanting to go anywhere near that cabin and her psycho sister. He turned, walking in the direction that the compass told him was east. He was moving pretty slowly since the snow was so high, burying his feet in the places where it was low. He worried that the road might be blocked with snow. He figured he could just follow it. It was reasonable to assume that if he did he would end up somewhere even-

"Dean, wait!" he heard Diane call. He turned, to see her sprinting after him, snow flying up around her feet.

"What happened?" Dean asked.

"Nothing," Diane said, out of breath.

"What was that all about back there?" he asked, turning to walk again.

"Oh, you know," she said, and he froze as he heard a gun cock behind him. "Just grabbing something I needed."

He turned slowly to see Diane aiming a hand gun at him.

"Diane?" he asked carefully.

"Put your hands up where I can see them," she ordered. Dean raised his hands, still holding the compass.

"Drop that," Diane instructed. Dean did as she ordered, still not understanding why Diane would be pointing a gun at him. Or maybe...

"You're not Diane are you," he realized.

Clara smiled, a nasty gleam in her eye.

"Nice to see you again Dean. I must say, she did a good job of hiding this time. I'm gonna have to have you show me where she's holed up before I kill you," she said.

"Where's Diane?" Dean asked, nodding at Diane's clothes, which Clara was wearing. Dean was suddenly worried for Diane. Clara had probably taken her clothes so Dean wouldn't recognize her right away. So where was Diane? And was she alright?

Clara laughed. "Honestly, I wouldn't hurt a hair on her head, she's just too precious." She nodded over her shoulder, not taking the gun off him. "Start walking, back to my cabin," she ordered.

"Why, so you can play with me some more?" Dean asked.

"Exactly," Clara said.

"So why the hell do you think I'm gonna do what you tell me?" Dean asked contemptuously.

"Because if you don't, I'll just shoot your kneecaps out, knock you out, and drag you back," Diane said.

Deans eyes darted around, trying to find some way to get out of this, more than aware of the knife that Diane had given him, tucked into his belt. He started walking back towards the cabin, winning a nod of approval from Clara and hoping that she wouldn't see the knife. He might be able to surprise her with it.

"So, what happened to you to make you so deranged?" Dean asked.

"Oh, I'm not deranged," Clara said. "Just a little bit sadistic."

"I think you mean a little bit psychotic," Dean said.

"Definitely that," Clara agreed.

"If Diane is too precious for you to hurt, why do you keep torturing people? She hates it you know," Dean said.

"Well, Diane won't hurt me either, but she does steal my toys," Clara said. "So I figure we're pretty much even. Although I do wonder about her sometimes. I would have thought she'd have known better than to go and sleep with you, knowing that in the end you would either send people back to kill us, or fall right back onto my table," Clara said.

"I'm only going to send people back for you," Dean said.

"And how, pray tell, are they going to be able to tell the difference between my sister and I?" Clara asked. "I won't hurt my sister, but if it comes down to it, I'll let them kill her in my place."

Dean shook his head in disbelief. He didn't know why. He should have been expecting it from this... sicko.

"You're disgusting. You're a disgusting, vile, wretched human, and you make me want to throw up," Dean said.

"All humans can be described that way," Clara said.

"How do you figure that?" Dean asked.

"Simple humanity," Clara said. "It defines itself. All you have to do is watch our race, and you'll see that we're scum, pure and simple."

"Not everyone is," Dean said. He could see the cabin now, though Diane wasn't in sight. Maybe she was inside.

"Oh trust me, on the inside, maybe hidden deep down in the recesses of the soul, everyone, and I mean everyone, is capable of being twice what I am," Clara said.

Dean stopped at the door of the cabin, glancing back to see that Clara was still too far away for him to try anything.

"Get inside," she ordered.

He opened the door, and stepped inside, quickly scanning the room, his worry growing when he didn't see Diane.

"Where's Diane?" he asked, turning to face Clara. She kicked the door shut, not turning away from him.

"Doesn't matter." She nodded to the table, on which was a cup of water. "Drink it," she told him.

"Let me guess, it's drugged," Dean said, picking it up.

"You're very intelligent," Clara remarked drily. "Down the hatch."

Dean picked the glass up, looking down into it with no intention whatsoever of drinking it. He tossed it at Clara, dodging to the side quickly as the gun went off, pulling the knife off his belt and ramming into her. She grabbed his arm as tried to stab her, and he pinned the hand she had the gun in to the ground. She jerked her knee up, connecting with his groin, and headbutting him at the same time, stunning him enough to fling him off of her. The knife went flying against the wall, and he felt a sharp, tearing pain in his leg in the same instant as he heard a gun go off. He cried out, clutching his leg where Clara had shot him.

"Damn it," Clara said, looking at a deep gash on her arm. Dean hadn't know that he'd cut her, and he was glad that he'd gotten something in. He spotted the knife to his side, and lunged for it, crying out again as the gun went off, and clutching his hand to his chest. Fuck, she was a good shot.

"Don't move," she commanded, walking over and picking the knife up. "I'm going to need stitches in this. Haven't we talked about who hurts who around here?"  
Dean spit at her in contempt.

"That's fine. I'll deal with you later," she snarled, keeping the gun trained on him as she pulled the rug to the side and opened the trap door. "Get down there."

He didn't budge, and her eyes narrowed.

"Get down there or I'll shoot you in enough places that you won't be able to fight back when I haul you down myself," she threatened.

Dean considered still refusing, but knew that he wouldn't get out of this if he couldn't run or fight. Granted, running would be hard with his leg the way it was, but he could make it out if he got the chance. He stood, leaning against the wall for support as much as he could, groaning when he had to put weight on his leg. He started down the stairs, but Clara kicked his back, and he cried out as he tumbled the rest of the way down, to land at the bottom, in serious pain and wheezing for breath, having gotten the wind knocked out of him on the way down. Clara closed the trapdoor, plunging him into darkness.


	8. Haunted Sister

Dean knew that there was a table somewhere in the room that had knives on it. He fumbled in the dark, trying to put most of his weight on his good leg. He bumped into a table, and felt it gingerly, not wanting to cut himself.

"Yes!" he said softly in triumph when he felt the blade of a knife. He found the handle, and picked it up, trying to make his way back to the stairs. When Clara came back down, he was sure that she would bring a gun, so he would have to move quickly, or get shot.

He didn't know how long he waited for, listening and hoping. He heard some footsteps from above, and then they stopped for a while. It was silent, and he didn't know for how long, but it dragged on for him like eternity. Finally, he heard voices. Only one voice, actually.

"No, I won't let you," he heard... was it Clara or Diane? Damn it they both sounded the same.

"What, like you're going to stop me? You're too weak Diane."

Okay, so that was Clara.

"I'm strong enough to keep a hold on you," Diane said.

"Not all of the time, obviously," Clara said.

"Just stop this. Please, I'm begging you," Diane said pleadingly.

"He'll bring back people to kill us," Clara said. "Are you really willing to die to get rid of me?" Dean frowned. Was Clara saying she would kill Diane?

"Yes," Diane said.

"If you want it so badly, why don't you just do it yourself? You know you hate me," Clara said.

"Truth is, you're right about me, in a way," Diane said. "I'm too weak to do it myself. But I'm strong enough to let him do it for me."

He heard a scream, though it was more like a primal shout of effort, and a thump. It was quiet for a moment, and then he heard footsteps. The trapdoor swung open suddenly, and Dean ducked to the side of the stairs.

"Dean?" a voice asked. Clara or Diane, he wondered. "Dean, it's me," she said.

He held the knife more tightly, waiting. He heard footsteps on the stairs, and saw the light from a lamp she was holding. He peeked around to see her clothes, and realized it was Clara. He charged her, and she turned just in time to see him and dodge away, barely keeping a hold on the lamp.

"Dean, it's me," she insisted.

"Yeah right, nice try," Dean said, holding the knife, ready to attack again.

"Look, I swear, Dean. If I was Clara, I would have brought a gun, right?" she said. He looked her over, and didn't see a gun.

"It's me," she said again.

"What did you do, take the clothes back?" he asked.

"It's complicated," Diane said.

"Complicated? You've been telling me it's complicated since the day we met Diane. I want some answers now," he demanded.

"Dean, look, you need to go. You can go right now. The gun's on the table up there, you can take it with you," Diane said pleadingly. "Just go, bring back help."

"I heard you talking to your sister up there. What did she mean when she asked if you were willing to die to get rid of her?"

Diane didn't answer.

"What did she mean Diane?!" Dean demanded.

"Please don't," Diane begged. "Please, just-"

"Something's going on here, and I want to know what the hell it is," Dean shouted.

Diane took a breath, and something seemed to change. The air in the room grew a bit colder, and his breath came out in clouds. Her eyes shifted, tending more towards a cold grey color. She smiled, a cold, calculating, mocking smile.

"Fine Dean. You want to really know what's going on here?" she said. She put the lamp down on the table in the center of the room, and took a step towards him.

"Stop moving Diane," he warned.

"Diane?" she laughed. "You are so naive Dean. I couldn't believe it when you told her how you were a hunter."

"What?" Dean asked.

"Oh, yeah, I heard that conversation. And all the ones that came after it. I know everything about you that she does Dean. It's all up here... with me," she said, tapping her head.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded.

"Wow, you really are thick if you haven't caught on yet," she said. "Think hard for a moment Dean. Why are we both wearing the same clothes?" She rolled up her sleeves, baring her scars. "Why do we have the exact same scars? And, here's the million dollar question. Have you ever seen us both at the same time?" she asked.

"Clara?" he asked, realization dawning on him, all the pieces clicking into place. "You're a ghost. You're possessing her. That's what's going on, isn't it? That's what she's always meant when she's said that she wasn't strong enough to do it. She never meant killing you. She was talking about killing herself to get rid of you along with her. That's why she's out here all by herself."

"Finally," Clara said. "Took you long enough."

Dean backed away from her as she advanced on him. "Stay back," he warned.

"Or what, you'll stab me? You'll be killing Diane," Clara said.

Dean would have killed for some salt right about then. Or iron. "So how does this work, you're both trapped in there and what, she keeps you under wraps most of the time?"

"Most of the time, she doesn't have too. She only really tries when someone comes into the woods, or I try to go anywhere. I will admit, she does have a strong will. But, so do I," Clara said.

She walked past the table, picking up a knife off of it. Dean backed away further, on the other side of the table from her by now.

"Her problem is mostly sentiment. It makes her weak. Me, I'm ruthless. I don't care about anyone anymore, not even her really. I used to. I used to love her the most out of any of my family. You know they tried to send me to the nuthouse once?" she asked.

"I can't imagine why," Dean said sacastically.

"Me neither. They all betrayed me, every one of them. Diane helped me escape. And then she killed me," Clara said.

"What, for no reason? I don't think so," Dean said.

"Well, she did have her motives. I killed the entire family, after all," Clara said.

"Why am I not surprised at this point?" Dean asked.

"They had it coming. Blood's supposed to be thicker than water," Clara said. She snorted angrily. "But as far as most of them were concerned, maple syrup was thicker than blood."

"Or maybe they saw that you were crazy as batshit and didn't want you hurting anybody," Dean argued. He was getting closer to the stairs. He was planning to make a run for it, grab the gun, and... what, shoot Diane?

"You didn't know them, so don't defend them," Clara spat.

"They can't have been any worse than you," Dean retorted. He had it. He would grab the gun to keep it away from her, run, and come back with salt and iron. They could get the ghost out of Diane, and everything would turn out rosy.

"How do you think I got like this in the first place?" she yelled. "You don't pop out of the womb this way!"

"So what, you blame them for turning you into a monster?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Clara said.

"Well you know what? Sometimes family sucks. That's what they're for, they're annoying, and they make you feel like shit. And yeah, they help shape who you are as a person. But there's a point in your life where you gotta stop blaming other people for what they do to you, and take responsibility for your own actions," Dean said.

"You sound like my old therapist. You know what happened to her? I gutted her with a pen knife," Clara said.

Dean turned and ran for the stairs without responding. He made it to the top when Clara grabbed his foot, trying to pull him back down and slashing wildly with the knife. He kicked at her, the knife slicing through the top of his shoe and grazing his foot, but he managed to get free, and stumbled to his feet, looking for the gun. He saw it on the table where Diane had said it would be and ran for it. He grabbed it, but Clara ran at him screaming, trying to stab him. He fell to the ground, she on top of him, trying to pry the gun from him, having lost her grip on the knife. There was a sudden bang as the gun went off, and Dean waited for the pain to hit him. It never did though, and Clara fall off him, letting go of the gun completely. Dean scrambled back from her, seeing blood spreading across her stomach. She pressed her fingers to it, looking down at the wound in shock.

"Well shit," she said. Her eyes shifted to a warmer brown color, and the temperature in the room rose a few degrees.

"Diane?" he asked. Her eyes flitted over to him, darting away quickly. "Is that you in there?" Dean asked, starting to make his way towards her.

"Don't," she said, holding a hand out weakly to try and hold him back. "Get out of here, now."

"No, you're coming with me," he said, trying to pull her to her feet. She wasn't helping him at all, trying to make him go on his own, and he couldn't lift her with the state his leg was in.

"Dean, just go," she mumbled, trying to sound insistent, but not succeeding. He knew he couldn't get her out of the woods. He would be amazed if he could make it out himself. He grunted in pain as he dragged her over towards the bed in the corner, setting her down and sitting next to her.

"You're losing too much blood. Look, Diane. Look at me," he said. She focused on him, and he took her hand, placing it over the wound. "Press on that, and don't stop. Do you hear me? I can get Clara out of you, and then everything is gonna be fine, you got that? You don't have to die," he said firmly.

Diane made a small sound in the back of her throat, her eyes closing. Dean shook her, and the popped back open. "You can't go to sleep. Don't do that, okay?" he said. "Promise me you aren't going to die on me Diane," he said.

"Just go Dean. Hurry up," Diane said. He hesitated, before leaning down and kissing her forehead quickly.

"I'm coming back for you," he said, standing. She watched him limp out of the cabin, turning back one last time to look at her before walking out. She stared after him until she couldn't hear his footsteps anymore, before she closed her eyes, silent tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as she swallowed back a lump in her throat, knowing that this was the last time she would see Dean Winchester.


	9. The Ones We Cannot Save

**A month later**

Dean thought about that day often. What he remembered most clearly wasn't the cold biting into him as he'd stumbled down the road, until he finally found a car after what had seemed like an eternity. The couple in the car had called 911, but they told them that they would take a few hours to get there, and to stay where they were. Dean had tried to go back for Diane, but the two wouldn't let him leave, and he looking back he realized he wouldn't have made it anyway. He was too weak from losing blood, numb from the cold. He'd tried to stay awake, but had passed out before the police or ambulances made it.

The investigator who had rushed to the scene along with the ambulance told him that the couple who'd found him had told them about Diane. Apparently Dean had been ranting about her while they'd been waiting.

"Is she okay?" he'd asked, sitting up in the hospital bed.

"We found blood at the cabin, but there wasn't anyone there. Besides your foot prints, it looks like someone else walked to the cabin, and left with her. We found broken glass on the road where the tracks ended, almost three and a half miles away, but that's all we have so far," he'd said.

"You didn't find her?" Dean asked. The rest of what he said had slowly begun to sink in. "What, someone walked out with her?" he asked.

"Apparently. From the shoe size we're guessing it's a man, but we really can't be sure. The funny thing is there's tracks, but there isn't any shoe prints. The shoes were completely smooth on the bottom. Very odd," he'd said.

"But Diane was dying," Dean said. "She couldn't walk, or else I wouldn't have left her behind."

"I don't know what to tell you son. We're not giving up, so just hold onto your pants, and we'll let you know if we have any new developments," the investigator had said. "Now, I do want to talk to you about some of these scars that Doctor Medley's been telling..."

Dean had stopped listening to him then, not really caring what he'd had to say. They hadn't kept him long in the hospital, and as soon as he'd gotten out, he'd had Sam drive him back to the cabin. No one else in his family thought it was a good idea, but Dean didn't listen to them. Bobby had come along with them at John's request, since both John and Mary were tied up working on a case in Idaho.

Dean didn't know what he'd been hoping he would find. The cabin had been cleaned up since the last time he'd seen it. It looked lighter now, all of Clara's blood paintings taken down and probably thrown out or burnt. Dean would have burnt them. The basement room still reeked of blood, though all of the furniture had been removed, and the blood cleaned from the floor and the walls.

Bobby waited outside for Dean to come back, wanting to see if he could get some kind of closure out of this. He doubted that the elder Winchester boy would. Dean had told him all about what had happened between him and Diane, and Bobby knew Dean was feeling guilty about a few things. Leaving Diane behind. Not making her tell him what was going on sooner. He blamed himself for whatever had happened to her. That was his problem. He blamed himself for everything.

Dean finally came out of the cabin, and walked past Bobby silently, heading back towards the car, which they'd left Sam guarding. Bobby followed him, not speaking, not knowing what he should, or could say.

Sam was practically jumping by the time they reached the car.

"Finally. I gotta go," he said, jumping out of the car and heading off into the bushes. Dean and Bobby got in the car to wait for him to get back. Bobby knew he should say something. Crap he hated situations like these.

"You know, she might still be alive," he said, not sure what else to say.

"She could be. Guess we'll never know for sure," Dean said.

"You know I'm bad at this talking crap," Bobby said. "What I was gonna try and hit at is that you're gonna be fine. Just give yourself some time, and don't be hard on yourself either. You did the best you could."

"Yeah," Dean said simply.

"There's always gonna be people we can't save. You just need to let them go."

Dean didn't respond and Bobby let it go.

Sam came back and climbed into the back of the car and Bobby started it. They drove away in silence.

Dean couldn't let go of the ones he couldn't save. He owed it to them to remember them, especially if that was all he could do.

* * *

**The End**


End file.
